


Goodbye, Sherlock

by loveisasacrifice



Series: Goodbye, Sherlock [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Gen, Reichenbach Falls, Sacrifice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-09
Updated: 2013-07-09
Packaged: 2017-12-18 04:34:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,181
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/875685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/loveisasacrifice/pseuds/loveisasacrifice
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What happens when the Reichenbach fall is turned around, and John is the one who is giving up everything?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Goodbye, Sherlock

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



> This is my first try at a fanfic, so please don't be mad! It isn't britpicked or beta'd yet, but if you want to help me with any problems please leave a comment!

It began with Mycroft’s call. Well, some of it was Mycroft. John had been leaving the flat, to buy some milk. Sherlock had been in a bad mood once again, but with something deeper and more ominous shadowing it. John knew it was Moriarty causing the silent brooding, the nicotine patches on Sherlock’s arms, the calculating look within those green-grey-blue eyes. It was late, but John needed tea to distract him from the silence within the flat. “I’m going out!” he shouted to Sherlock as he grabbed his coat, wallet and keys. There was no reply. Of course, John thought.  
Most people wouldn’t have gone out late at night, grocery-shopping, with a criminal after them. John did, for he knew he had Mycroft’s protection. He wasn’t grateful, heavens no, but he was… slightly relieved that he could go out without being kidnapped and/or killed. John stood at the sidewalk, waving at the cabs rushing along Baker Street, trying not to be frustrated as cab and cab passed him by. The night was quiet, with just a few pedestrians walking along the sidewalk. John finally got a cab to stop, some ways down the street, after a few minutes of fruitless waving.  
He was just about to jog down to the cab when the nearest phone booth rang. John froze, remembering the first time something like this had happened. With a resigned sigh, he looked up at the nearest CCTV camera. The red light stared at him for a moment, then swiveled to watch the brick wall behind it. The phone booth kept ringing, longer than a normal pay phone should be allotted. John turned around a few times, noting the CCTV cameras that all suddenly seemed to find blank walls and pavement very interesting. Sighing, John waved the cab away, and walked towards the phone booth.  
The door handle was cold, sending a shiver through John as he picked up the black pay phone. “Yes?” John inquired exasperatedly. “What do you want, Mycroft?” There was a strained chuckle from the other side of the phone line, which immediately sent John’s senses on overload. There was something wrong. Mycroft never laughed, or giggled, or chuckled, or expressed any emotion except disdain. Period. “Mycroft?” John said again, this time with slight concern.  
“This… this is important,” Mycroft said with a slight stutter. His voice sounded hoarse, almost pained. “Mycroft!” John said loudly. “Are you ok? Do you need anything?” Mycroft sighed through the phone, the slightly crackly sound of his breath leaving his lungs sending a chill through John. All of his instincts yelled Something’s wrong! at him. John heard another voice in the background, muted by the distance but still within hearing distance. The unknown voice seemed to be saying something with annoyance evident in its tone. Mycroft suddenly said, “Yes,” with a finality that left John breathless. “Mycroft! Mycroft, answer me! What is happening?”  
John could feel nothing as he heard a sickening noise of something snapping, and Mycroft screaming in pain. Mycroft screaming? No, no, no. John was about to yell at the phone when he heard a sickeningly familiar voice slither through the phone and wrap itself around his neck.  
“Hello, John. Welcome to the endgame.”

 

“Moriarty,” John said detachedly. He still felt numb. Mycroft injured, possibly dead, within his own domain. And Jim Moriarty had somehow done all this. John still felt like he wasn’t completely connected to his own body, but a part of him was burning with white-hot rage. Rage he would gladly unleash on Moriarty. John watched his hand with no interest as it punched through the glass of the phone booth, leaving shards of glass all over the pavement. Of course, he wouldn’t get arrested. Not when all the cameras were turned away, leaving no evidence of the call.  
“Hello John. How are you?” Moriarty inquired pleasantly. If John hadn’t known how evil and sick Moriarty was, he might’ve almost thought the question was innocent. Instead, he felt the rage growing inside of him. Moriarty was wasting his time with useless questions while Sherlock and Mycroft were both in danger.  
“Stop with the useless talk!” John shouted through the phone. He took a calming breath, and began again. “I know you wouldn’t bother to call and go through all this if it weren’t for something you wanted from me. So tell me now, while you have the chance.” Moriarty laughed again, a full-blown laugh that had tremors of fury going through John.  
“My, my,” Moriarty said after his laughs had subsided. “You are quite correct, I do want something from you. Of course, you probably think I want something like information, or something so horridly… boring of the sort. No, no, I’m not boring. I want a promise from you. Of course, you don’t want to promise me anything, do you? But I know you will give me your oath you will go through with this, no matter how painful for you it may be. You see, the only way you can save Sherlock from death is to promise me this.”  
John began shaking halfway through. When he heard Moriarty’s last sentence, John snapped. He spoke with a deadly calm, while inside him everything was chaotic and red and ready to snap Moriarty’s neck. “How do you know this is the only way?” Moriarty laughed again, but this time bitterly and with a dryness that was even scarier than his unstable, crazy laugh.  
“I know,” Moriarty said softly, with a threat woven in. “I know, because I know how his brain works. You see, I just need to provide him with a… distraction. Something that will make his brain turn, his thoughts completely encompassed by my distraction. And you see, that isn’t very hard. I know how his brain works because I am his other half. I am the evil side of him, what he would’ve ended up as if it weren’t for you.” Moriarty spat out the last world like a curse, like an abomination.  
John knew with a sickening certainty that Moriarty was right. Sherlock’s brain was different than almost everyone else’s. Too fast, too different, too special for anyone to comprehend except for those who were like him. John breathed out once, listening to Moriarty’s expectant silence.  
“Tell me what you want me to do.”

 

Sherlock waited expectantly on the top of Saint Bart’s, waiting for John to show up in the street underneath him. He was a bundle of nerves, his cellphone in his hands. He wasn’t bothered by the corpse behind him, the dead body of Jim Moriarty. One of the best criminals he had ever gone up against. Of course, the end wasn’t preferable. Sherlock sighed as he looked down for the 7th time. The pavement seemed much farther down than before. He sighed again, checking the time on his phone. Where was John?  
Sherlock looked down again, thoughts swirling through his mind like bees, annoying him to no end. Where was John? When were Mycroft’s men going to get here? Did Molly have the plan in action yet? Would John be okay after Sherlock “died”? Would John find someone new? John? Sherlock reprimanded himself silently. He needed to focus on the plan or else he might actually be injured. He looked down towards the street again, searching the crowd for the blond hair he knew so well.  
Sherlock looked up at the sky, which was slightly overcast. The sun was still shining slightly, but there were gray clouds moving in slowly. He could see the barest glint of sun reflect off Scotland Yard’s metal structure, a reminder of all the times Sherlock had been there with John. John. Sherlock would miss him for the few years he had to disappear. But John would understand once Sherlock got back. John would understand it was for him, that the disappearance was to eliminate the last of Moriarty’s web.  
Sherlock was so engrossed in his thoughts he barely noticed when the door behind him opened. He noticed too late, and by then there were already arms pulling him back from the ledge, more than one person, none of them John. Yet he could smell the familiar scent that was John on the slight wind that blew across the roof. He could smell the mix of Earl Grey, aftershave, and something else Sherlock couldn’t put a name on. Sherlock twisted this way and that, until he found the source of the smell. John.  
Why was John here? He looked at the two men holding him. Mycroft’s men. John was in league with Mycroft? Nothing made sense. Sherlock didn’t have enough data to deduce anything, to come up with a conclusion. Sherlock heard the soft noise of John’s leather shoes across the cement of the roof. A familiar gait, the reassuring sound of John. Only this time, it seemed to be heavier, sadder, more final. Sherlock lifted his eyes to meet John’s blue ones, dread growing in him as he saw the sadness and resignation in them.  
“John!” Sherlock shouted, struggling against the two men. “You have to listen to me! Moriarty-“ John cut him off with his own words. “I know.” Sherlock froze. “What do you mean you-“ John smiled deprecatingly, speaking with a conviction Sherlock doubted he had. “I am Moriarty, Sherlock.” Sherlock laughed once, desperately. John just looked at him, grief written within those blue eyes, within the lines on his face Sherlock hadn’t notice until right then. “John, what are you saying? You aren’t! You were with me all those times Jim did something evil! You remember his craziness, the way people spoke of J. Moriarty.”  
John smiled again, as if waiting for Sherlock to catch on. “Did any of them every say that the J stood for Jim or James? Did any of the witnesses actually say it?” Sherlock shook his head. “No, no, no.” John looked at him for another moment, his eyes unreadable. Then a sad smile cracked his face. “I’m glad you believe in me. I did the same for you. I’ve already posted the evidence on my blog that you are innocent. That Moriarty is real. Your reputation will stay safe once I’m gone.”  
“Who gives a damn about my-“ Sherlock froze again. “When you’re… gone?” John smiled again, this time with a grief in his face that sent dread convalescing through every cell in Sherlock’s body, making his chest ache. “I never did get any milk for you yesterday night,” John said thoughtfully. “Make sure you keep the fridge stocked after I’m gone, ok? I can’t have you starving yourself.” Sherlock was now struggling again, his whole body shaking with tremors of fear. Fear, a detached part of Sherlock’s brain thought. Strange that now I am able to feel emotions. High-functioning sociopath, my arse.  
“Make sure you check up on Mycroft later, he is awfully hurt. Of course, I owe much to him. I’m sorry he had to be hurt, but his sacrifice let me do this. Let me save you.” Sherlock stared uncomprehendingly, scenarios flashing through his head. John leaned closer to Sherlock, whispering in his ear. “Mycroft gave Jim a bargain. After all, Jim’s cancer was due to kill him soon. Jim just… got a bit more fun out of his own death. Mycroft gave Jim an hour to do whatever he wanted to Mycroft, if it meant that you wouldn’t have to go through with your part in Moriarty’s plan.”  
Sherlock felt ice in his veins. “Mycroft gave himself up for me?” John smirked, but with no true humor in it. It was like an act, a prepared smile. “No Sherlock, Mycroft gave me up for you. Moriarty didn’t want it to end too boring, so he proposed this. And I accepted. I knew about the snipers that were set to kill Lestrade, Mrs.Hudson, and I. Moriarty told me this. He called them off last night, when I made him a deal. Instead of Sherlock Holmes falling from grace, literally, it would be his loyal blogger. For the blogger, who always went unnoticed next to Sherlock Holmes, the great consulting detective, was done with his lot in life.”  
Sherlock couldn’t move, couldn’t speak, couldn’t breathe. “The blogger, oh poor me,” John said sarcastically, “had unrequited feelings of love. Of course, the emotionless, unfeeling, high-functioning sociopath couldn’t return those feelings even if he wanted to. So the blogger, Dr. John Watson, decided that he was finished. Just a last blog post, about his unending love for Sherlock Holmes, was his note. Because that’s what people do, right? Leave a note?” Sherlock almost laughed from the irony. That was his speech! His sacrifice! He was supposed to die, and keep John safe. Not the other way around!  
John looked Sherlock over once more, as if unlocking all of Sherlock’s secrets could keep them both safe. Sherlock tried to jump forward, but he couldn’t. He watched helplessly, grief and rage tearing a primal scream from his throat. John waved sadly, once, stepping onto the ledge of the roof.  
“Goodbye, Sherlock.”


End file.
